My Little Baby
by Castoro Chiaro
Summary: He’ll always be my little baby, for now and always.  Ever since his birth, ever since I first held him in my arms, I knew my little Mac would be my bright baby son.  OneShot.


'Ello! It's me again! This time, my topic of choice is Foster's. I noticed how it seems everyone is convinced Mac's mom is an evil woman from hell, or she's heartless and doesn't care about Mac, so I decided to write something from her perspective. It's actually a 'Bloo origin', with a slight twist. Enjoy.

**DISCLAIMER OF SPOOKY DOOM**: I do not own Foster's.

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My Little Baby

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He'll always be my little baby, for now and always. Ever since his birth, ever since I first held him in my arms, I knew my little Mac would be my bright baby son. Terrence was my big boy, and ever since he first learned to walk and talk, I knew he wanted independence, to go his own way, to go on his own rebellious path. But my Mac...he would be my little baby who clung to my leg and told me that he loved me more than anything. That's what I believed.

At first, as most babies do, he slept in my room. He'd wail in the night, and I'd take him in my arms to soothe his nighttime frights. He grew, like all babies inevitably do, and gained his own room. But, still, he'd scare easily in the long, lonely nights, and like clockwork, he'd show up in my doorway, all decked out in his adorable footy pajamas. He'd look up at me with scared eyes, shaking slightly. And, like a good mother, I'd take him up in my arms and lay him next to me. I'd let him drift off first, arms wrapped around my neck, little head snuggled under my chin. _My baby boy..._, I'd think contentedly to myself before sleep took me.

Even at age two, he'd still appear faithfully each night, mumbling in his sweet little voice, "Mummy, may I sleep in your bed?"

"Of course, Mac," I'd reply, scooping him up into my arms and setting him in his respective place next to me in bed.

"Love you, Mummy..." he'd sigh happily before his tired eyes shut completely. He'd never hear my answer. "I love you, too."

But, then, one night, at age three, he didn't appear. I remember something about that month. I had just gotten a new job, and was so busy with that, I had little opportunity to sit and play with Mac, as I usually did. To compensate for our lost playtime, I'd given him a little drawing pad and some crayons. He'd take that thing everywhere. Even in the car, the delightful sound of crayon rubbing on paper could be heard, his little face scrunched into a look of total concentration. Terrence, who sat in front with me, would usually pester him nonstop to see what it was Mac was drawing on his pad. I'd told Mac when I'd given him that little pad of papers to show me his work when I got home, so he'd press the little notepad to his chest and snap back at his older, "No! I only show Mommy my drawings!"

A week before that particular night when Mac failed to come to my bedroom, he'd shown me a most peculiar drawing. It resemble a little ghost from Pac-man (Inky, I think the blue one was called), with a curious grin across its face.

"It's Bloo," he declared, smiling in triumph at his work.

"I see. So, you called it 'Blue'?"

"No, no, 'Bloo'," Mac corrected me, extending the 'oo' sound to emphasize this creature was not simply named for its color; it was a creature all its own. I smiled and patted him warmly on the head.

"Why did you draw Bloo?"

"I wanted a best friend. He's gonna be my best friend ever," he said happily, running a hand across the heavily crayon-smeared paper as if stroking a beloved pet. Poor Mac...he'd never made many friends. Even though I put him in a daycare in hopes that being surrounded in many other little children would push him beyond his barrier of shyness, he never really found any good friends, or a group to play with. When I came to pick him up I'd always be disappointed: Mac would be sitting apart from the others, not a person coming over to talk with him. Still, I'd heard about this sort of thing: imaginary friends. Most usually started with drawings like these. Still, as part of our little bedtime routine, I hugged him and gave him a kiss. As I flicked the lights off, I reassured myself it was just a drawing, nothing more.

I was wrong, and I'll admit that. During the following week, Bloo frequented his drawings more and more. He'd tell me so many things about Bloo, and chatter endlessly about him as if he'd know this blue blob his whole life. It both worried and astounded me, this odd fascination with Bloo did.

Then, that faithful night came. I tucked him in, kissed him gently atop the head, and switched off the lights. I waited. Moments crept on, lingering on to hours. I was so used to Mac coming in, to him laying soundly beside me, that simple waiting grew into insomnia. Where was he? Finally, I cast off the blankets, not sure if I was to be worried he wasn't there, or proud that this might have meant he conquered his fear of the dark nights.

His door was slightly ajar, allowing a small stream of light to enter his darkened room. I pushed it open, and put my head in the room. The first thing that was noticably different was the usual ambient breathes dealt by Mac were not the only sounds in the room. Another sound filled the room; gentle murmers of subconcious. Mac never talked in his sleep. And this other voice wasn't his. It was much higher pitched, almost feminine, yet still deep enough to be considered male. I crept into the room, feeling slightly ridiculous about peaking in on Mac for such a selfish reason. In the bed, Mac was on his side, clutching something in his arms. A blue something. At first, I thought it was a stuffed animal. But, after a moment of observation, I realized it was moving, and that the murmurs were being produced by it.

At first, I didn't know what to think. But, it became perfectly clear that Mac had made himself an imaginary friend. I returned to bed, not sure what this would mean. Perhaps nothing would change. He'd still be my little baby boy, I'd assured myself.

The next morning, I got up early to cook a big morning breakfast. This was a little treat I did every Saturday, since that was my day off back then. I filled a big pot with water, and set it on the stove to boil. I pulled some bacon and eggs out of the refridgorator, and prepared some pans to cook them. I loved those mornings, with the smells of cooking eggs and the pleasant crackle of bacon grease filling the kitchen. Sadly, my schedule nowadays has me working all week long. As soon as the water boiled, I poured in some oatmeal and placed a lid atop it to trap in the steam. I heard the first sounds of awakening come from Mac's room, which were followed soon by Mac entering the kitchen, Bloo in tow.

"Man, I'm starved!" Bloo announced to noone in particular, placing himself at the table. My spot.

"Good morning, Mac," I greeted my son with a friendly smile on my face.

"Hi, Mommy. This is Blooregard Q. Kazoo, my best friend," he introduced, gesturing towards the blob, who looked like he was more focused on the bacon cooking on the stove than me. "And Bloo, this is my mom. I just call her 'Mommy'."

"Hey," Bloo waved at me, snapping his gaze over to me only briefly before returning it to the pan of sizzling bacon. I frowned slightly, but removed the pan from the burner to empty its slightly blackened contents onto a papertowel-covered plate. Bloo licked his lips greedily, and removed my plate from its spot on the table to acquire some of the delicious food.

"I'd like some of that bacon," Bloo said, no trace of politeness in his words. In fact, it sounded more like an order.

"_Please_, Bloo. You forgot to say '_please_'," Mac corrected. _Good boy_, I thought, glad Mac still minded his manners.

"Okay..." Bloo grumbled, irritated . "**_Please_** may I have some of that bacon?"

I served him some of the bacon, and he returned to the table. Mac grabbed his bowl, which was always present due to the fact he always chose to eat oatmeal at these Saturday meals.

"Mommy, may I please have some oatmeal?" he inquired politely, holding up his favorite little blue bowl. I opened the lid to the oatmeal, which lay in the pot burbling and releasing small puffs of steam with each bubble. I ladled a bit of the gloppy substance into his bowl, and poured a bit of cream into it to cool it's savagely hot contents. I reached up into the cabinets and drew out a little sugar shaker and handed it to Mac.

"Thank you, Mommy," he said happily, returning to the table.

"ICK!" Bloo made a disgusted noise, brandishing the spoon that had been set next to his plate at Mac's oatmeal. "What is THAT?"

"It's oatmeal," Mac told him while he sprinkled a bit of sugar into it. "It's really tasty, right Mommy?"

"Yes," I agreed, glad to see he still acted like the little Mac I always loved.

"Well, it looks **GROSS**!" Bloo said, a look of distaste on his face. "I think I saw it move."

"Bloo, just eat your bacon," I sighed, not used to such rude remarks about my cooking. Bloo picked up and crunched his last piece of bacon, chewing eat bite meaningfully. Mac took his time, spooning up each bite and savoring their sweet, and thick delight. Terrence finally appeared at that point, looking perfectly groggy. He took his seat, his attention falling on the new occupant in the kitchen.

"What's _that_?" he asked, quirking an eyebrow at Bloo's curious appearance.

"I'm not a WHAT, I'm a WHO," Bloo said heatedly. "And my name is Bloo."

Terrence shrugged, and served himself a few eggs and some strips of bacon. A few moment of silence, save the sounds of chewing and clinking silverware passed, then Mac finished his oatmeal.

"Finally!" Bloo said, both impatiently, and excitedly. "Come on, let's go play something!'

Mac nodded and set his bowl in the sink. Both boys (if Bloo could be called a boy) rushed off to Mac's room. Things were never really the same ever since Bloo arrived. He and Mac became inseparable, and Mac started to drift away from me. He didn't really stop loving me, or love me less. No, he was still close to me in that sense. But he stopped clinging to me so much, stopped depending on me for companionship or someone to talk to. He had Bloo for that.

I can never say I hated Bloo, nor that I hate him now. While it was true he was raucous and rowdy where Mac was thoughtful and timid, he wasn't ever worthy of contempt. I could never say I loved him, either. There was always something, something I couldn't quite name, that made it impossible for me to ever love him as much as Mac did. Maybe some immature part of me wants to believe he stole my Mac away. It feels that way sometimes.

I still tuck Mac in, despite the late hours I work. It's a silly thing to do, since once I get home, Mac is fast asleep, and can never feel the gentle kisses I place on his forehead. Some part of me always tells myself that if he's too old for an imaginary friend, he should be too old for me to do this. But I can't help it. No matter how old he gets, he'll always be my baby.


End file.
